Of all the taxis in New York City, Claire had to hop into the one belonging to a Travis Bickle look-alike. Though he was missing the mohawk, the man's similarities to a younger Robert DeNiro were remarkable, not to mention creepy. His name, the card stuck to the dashboard showed her, was George. George revealed himself to be a quite friendly man, contrary to many a-cabby she had met in the past, and was more than ready to drive her all the way from Manhattan to Long Island before dinnertime. Claire wondered nonetheless when was he going to crack and pull a gun off his argyle sweater, but as the first five uneventful minutes rolled by, she was forced to admit that George wasn't going to do more than chatter idly about the weather.

Looking out through the window, fleeting trails of red light shot across her reflection as the twilight sky began to darken. It wasn't an easy task to entertain oneself amidst the rush hour traffic, as the Briton soon found out. There wasn't a lot of people outside; only a few joggers as far as Claire could see. Under the Queensboro Bridge, the lights on Roosevelt Island began to flicker into life. She looked away. That place gave her the creeps.

Apprehension began to gnaw at her as George drove them across the bridge. She didn't know Richard Cox, the man who would be her host for the rest of the evening. Sure, she did know his name; a well-known designer, deeply connected to the Museum of Modern Art. Nigel mentioned his work once in a while, and how he would like to meet him. Apparently he had even asked their mother for his contact. It was that what did the trick, shining a light on Claire's mind. Once she got his contact — easily sidestepping mother — she only had to mention she was Elise Wright's daughter. Or rather, Elise Sutton-Wright's. Claire scowled at the thought of her mother, vaguely wondering if Richard Cox resembled her in any way.

Richard Cox had been very pleasant on the phone, readily inviting her for dinner at his place. Claire became suspicious at once — why would a man nearly old enough to be her father want her to swing by Queens on a Thursday night? But he then mentioned the wife and the kids, and if she would like to join them for dinner.

She accepted his invitation. It was a shot in the dark, but also the opportunity of a lifetime.

As George made the final turn to her destination, Claire checked her reflection on the cab's rear-view mirror for the last time. Her usually wild hair had been tamed into a neat ponytail. Her mascara wasn't smudged, neither was her carefully applied eyeliner, but there was a dash of cherry lipstick across her front teeth. She quickly licked it away and checked the time on her cellphone. Five minutes to eight.

The cab came to a halt at the assigned address. "That would be a twenty-six seventy-five, sweetheart," George said.

Claire handed him the fare money, along with a small pile of coins she retrieved from the bottom of her bag. "Thank you for the ride." George nodded, smiling at her through the rear-view mirror. "G'night!"

Climbing out of the taxi, Claire smoothed the dress over her legs — the feeling she had exaggerated on her attire for the occasion nagging at her. It was a rather casual dinner, nothing extremely fancy, or so she hoped. Looking down at her outfit however, the redhead decided to dismiss such a ridiculous worry; it was a nice dress after all, and one that made her feel guilty every time she saw it hung in her dresser, new and never worn. Plus, she had a brand new pair of shoes to show off.

Her heels clicked against the concrete pavement as Claire walked her way to the building's entrance, and at each step she grew nervous. The cellphone's screen flickered alight with static, a tell-tale sign of her own anxiety. Sighing deeply, she tucked it into her purse, before finally reaching the glass doors.

"Go on, then. You have come this far, haven't you?"

She placed a manicured index to the intercom, which chimed loudly under her touch.

It had been a typical slow Summer day. Mother had departed that very same morning for a really small shooting in Canada, promising not to take more than a couple of days before returning, father had been out to work for most of the day, and Andre spent most of his time inside of his room, brooding more than usual. It had been so ever since Enzo came out of both the gay and the genetic closets.

But he would hardly blame himself for being who he was. There was too much pride and self-respect for him to do so.

Instead, he had tried to find a way to contact DocProf. It had been quite an extended amount of time ever since he had visited the X mansion, and he was nearly sure that it had been enough for whatever tests his blood had been through to produce some results. He wanted to know what he could do! How else was he supposed to start getting some results with his powers?

Unfortunately, that search had been in vain. "Figures" he had thought "Can't be too careful." Instead of allowing this to clench at his mood and depress it, however, Enzo decided to trade some messages with Michael and Johanna. He would be having a date the following day, and this excited him.

Of course eventually boredom slipped through his skin. Michael was working and this greatly stifled the rate at which his messages came, and the conversation with Johanna eventually dried of, just like a lot of friendly texting did. Andre put on some loud music (was that Rammstein or something? Eeesh, the memories) as if in some sort of sign of rebellion, which left him bored AND bugged by random German noisiness. He decided to stretch out.

Around 7pm, Richard got home. He greeted both children, and told them he'd be trying a shot at the pizza recipe their mother had mastered...again. A shared fragile complicity formed between both brothers: that one weird idea their father always shared that they were only happy when they were eating something that would remind them of their homeland. The eye contact was broken by Andre, who left the living room.

"I see the way you're looking at him, son" Richard said, smiling sadly. He put his hand on Enzo's tall right shoulder "Don't worry, it's the age."

Enzo shrugged, mistakingly scaring Richard's hand away.

"I'll be going to my room to, dad, gotta do something."

The man nodded. But then, in that millisecond that would've separated their eye contact until pretty much dinner, a weird flash of discovery sparked behind Richard's eyes. That blue field of human intelligence looked anxiously at his son, seemingly crying for help.

"I nearly forgot!" was all that he let out. Enzo's handsome features shifted a bit. He knew that look; it was the kind of despaired expression his father made whenever he realized he had forgotten something important, and was on the verge of screwing up "We are supposed to have a visitor today!"

Now that had been a surprise. Eyebrows bridging between one another, Enzo stared at his father "What are you talking about, is it someone from your collective?"

Richard's body became intensely animated, unfolding the formal tie in front of his son as his feet took him into random directions; he had something to do, and wasn't sure what was his priority.

"No, I...it's this girl, Claire - she's the daughter of this important British curator - anyway, she contacted me, showed interest in MoMA...well, I'm not really sure why, but I thought about inviting her for dinner"

His father blushed. His son raised his eyebrows in amazement, as he understood part of his father's motivations towards inviting this random girl to their place. He let out a chuckle just as Mr Cox walked upstairs towards his room, probably to change.

"I getcha, father, but I'm really not into meeting girls for relationships, you know?" he let out in an ironical tone

"Nonsense" answered Richard.

"Ahah, I bet it is. Andre? Andre! Come down, we gotta make some pizza and fast, dad's invited some girl over and I think you're the one who can appreciate this the most.."

-//-

The hardest part for pizza making was the base, and the boys were making it from scratch. They were hardly in any shape to receiving visitors - covered in flour - but the duo expected this young girl could allow them to put on something comfortable and wash their hands. However, they already had that covered, and one of the four pizzas was already cooking in the oven. The living room had their usual round family table neatly dressed with a pear white towel and their design square plates with round edges, two glasses per person and red napkins. It looked a bit formal; they really didn't have lighter options for receiving people anyway.

Father rushed into the hot kitchen: he was wearing a nice dark blue suit, so desaturated it could almost pass for a light black, with a white t-shirt and a tie.

"She oughta be here any minute, boys. Andre, go take a quick shower and change, Enzo and I will cover from here"

His son left without as much of a word. Richard shook his head.

The bell rang.

"Oh." his father let out, nervously "Shoot, these British are punctual, she's going to hear your brother bathing!". That anxiety was slowly passing to Enzo, which was not a nice idea taking into account that was usually how his power activated. "Hum, ok. I'm going to get that. Please wash your hands and pay attention to that pizza, we don't want it overcooked"

"Aye, aye, padre"

With that, the man left to open the door. His words echoed throughout the house, barely disturbed by the sound of water coming from upstairs: "Yes? Oh yes, of course, please come up!"

A male voice came through the intercom, telling her to go up. An instant later, a low buzzing sound was heard and the glass door opened. Stepping inside, Claire found herself in the building's lobby. It was an ample space, with a marbled floor and walls, all the way up to the high ceiling. It lit up dimly at her presence.

Fifteen feet ahead stood her first obstacle. When giving her his address, Richard Cox vaguely mentioned a "top floor". Before her, the metallic doors of the elevator slid open with a low, unnerving hum.

It didn't take more than a glance for Claire to notice the lack of a stairway; in fact, only after much squinting did she made out the faint outline of a service door, smartly disguised into the marble wall, possibly leading to the building service stairs. The difficulty she had to find it made it spectacularly clear how often those stairs were used — most likely, never.

The sinking feeling she experienced was nearly enough to make her turn around and leave. It took all her courage to proceed; while her mind chastised her for actually pondering running up the stairs to the top of the building, her feet wanted nothing more than lead her away from the threat of the elevator. The mind took the best of it — the feet were clad in Louboutin — and soon Claire's footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet lobby as she closed the distance between her and the metal box. The elevator phosphorescent light loomed menacingly over her head when she finally entered the car.

If already anxious, the red-haired girl was beyond dread as soon as she took a good look at the button panel; the numbers were endless, neatly arranged in two columns. Topping these was a button that read "PENTHOUSE".

"Can't be more top floor than that," she muttered darkly, and punched the button with unnecessary force.

The doors closed and Claire drew in a sharp breath. As the elevator began its motion, her palms dampened, leaving her hands cold and clammy. A glance at the elevator's mirror revealed her how pale she had turned. Her freckles stood out even under the layer of foundation. Quite frankly, she couldn't look more like a drowning victim if she tried.

The elevator was of the hydraulic kind, and common knowledge dictated them as super-safe — in other words, it was also super-slow. The journey up seemed never-ending, it was so unbearable. The constant buzz that always filled her ears had been replaced by a deafening silence, as her signal reception steadily dropped to zero. "Empty your mind," she told herself in a hushed tone, trying to channel the soothing presence of her old yoga instructor, but to no avail; yet she continued, "Find your safe spot. You're not in a lift. You're in effing Ireland."

Finally reaching the last floor, Claire was ready to thank any deity, supernatural being or leprechaun, and as the doors slid open once more, she scrambled out the elevator car in a clumsy fashion.

The penthouse hall was quite different from the entrance lobby. If it was marbled, she couldn't tell, as the walls were covered with curtains. The floor was also carpeted and her heels sank into the thick carpet. Before her was a dark door, with its peephole up centre. To her right, the chrome doorbell.

The girl rubbed her hands on the dress's bodice, in an attempt to dry off the remaining dampness. Then, swiping her fingers over her fringe in a comb-like way, she cleared her throat and after a deep breath, she rang the doorbell.

It was all an exaggeration, really. In the Cox house, meal delays were a frequent occurrence: delayed planes, traffic, lack of parental control, it was a miracle if they managed to start eating around an hour most people would deem "decent". So, the way Enzo saw it, all the tension suddenly creeping out the walls and biting on his nerves was pretty much unnecessary and undesirable.

The back of his forearm casually swept the sweat off his forehead. It was unbearably hot inside that kitchen, almost as if the Equator had decided to squeeze inside. He peeped onto the cooking pizza with that usual ca-refilled gaze people who often screw up meals and other stuff requiring attention did. No burn signs.

Richard Cox entered the kitchen, almost as if possessed by some anxiety demon. His head turned around a few times, as if he was inspecting his dinner's progress. Enzo could not hide an amused grin:

"Father, please calm down, if you keep this up I'll turn blue or something. I'm sure we wouldn't want that.."

Blue eyes met his, finally concentrated on something other than how late they were and how Enzo would need to at the very least wash his hands like a madman.

"I thought you couldn't use your powers at will, son?" Richard asked, already meaning to leave the kitchen.

"And I can't, but if I get too anxious things usually happen. Now please, go, I got this covered. Tell Andre he's not using a public sauna"

Richard nodded and left. At that moment, there was a loud ringing noise coming from inside the kitchen, startling Enzo; somehow, the teenage boy felt that that loud sudden bang would've been enough to make him change color like a disco ball. His body felt stable, though. Inhaling deeply that delicious baking air, he went towards the small little red cooking alarm, turned it off, and opened the oven.

It looked beautiful: a square work of art, exhibiting a decent variety of fresh ingredients, including the usual mozzarella cheese, cold ham, small slices of tomato, onions and mushrooms. All was just right, intoxicating Enzo's nose - and stomach - with promises of bliss. He picked it up diligently, immediately placing in another pizza, one of a different variety.

Another bell rang, your usual modern high pitched bell that required only the slightest touch on the switch to blow like an ambulance inside an entire house. At best, it was bothersome; at worse, downright annoying.

"I'll get it!" answered Richard, quickly yet magnificently descending the stairs. Enzo could not see it, yet he knew his father was in character: that pleasant, chivalrous man with a nice touch of humor. Nothing more was necessary to obliterate that man's nerves; company of strangers transformed him into a full person.

With small deliberate steps, Richard covered what little space held him from the entrance door. Carefully, his left hand opened it, revealing an astonishing young woman. He offered her his right hand:

"Welcome, Claire. I am Richard Cox. Please, come in. My elder son is finishing dinner - I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid we had a small delay - and my youngest one is upstairs"

As Claire stood at the Coxes' entrance, muffled male voices reached her through the door, as well of the heavy footfalls of someone descending stairs. She didn't had a minute to wonder what could be going on inside, though, because a moment later the heavy door was pulled open. Before her stood a magnificent, well-groomed man, perhaps in his mid-forties. Although she was standing over a pair of four-inch heels, Claire suddenly felt she had shrunk about a foot; the man towered over her. Despite his slightly menacing height, his expression broke into a reassuring smile and he greeted her warmly, readily offering her his right hand.

>>"Welcome, Claire. I am Richard Cox." The girl politely took his enormous hand and shook it, returning his smile with a toothy grin of her own. >>"Please, come in."

"Thank you for receiving me in your home, Mr.Cox," she said. "It is such a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about your work."

Richard Cox then made room for her to enter and Claire did so. Instantly, the delicious aroma that wafted through the air overtook her; it smelled faintly of baked dough and an assortment of spices she could not differentiate — altogether scrumptious and certainly mouth-watering. She took a discrete peek at her surroundings. If the lobby were any indication of what she might expect of the penthouse, she wasn't at all disappointed; the hall was just as airy, seldom but tastefully decorated — something she would expect to see in a Wallpaper* magazine centerfold.

>>"My elder son is finishing dinner," Richard Cox said. — "Well, that explains why it smells so good," Claire thought — >>"I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid we had a small delay — and my youngest one is upstairs," he finished, his tone rather apologetic.

"Non-sense!" Claire exclaimed, dismissing it in a good-natured manner. "It's me who have to apologise for arriving sooner than you expected. Perhaps I should have been fashionably late, as you Americans call it?"

There's this strange effect that people with a British accent seem to have over a lot of American-raised individuals and Enzo was hardly impervious to it. One could say it carries an inexplicable - often undesirable - pint of formality. Invariably, it kind of stiffs your back a bit if you're not used to it, like it is adorned by an important regal touch. It made him a bit self-conscious about his current appearance, with all flour and sweat all over. "I'm a giant piece of uncooked bread, how amazing."

"It's me who have to apologize for arriving sooner than you expected. Perhaps I should have been fashionably late, as you Americans call it?"

Oh, that was an amazing remark! The teenage boy let out a small chuckle inside the kitchen, imagining just how embarrassed his father must've felt hearing it! Of course he hardly though their guest meant any harm - actually, it seemed she was shooting for a sociable catalyst - yet Enzo knew whom she was talking with: Richard Cox would probably be impervious to the imperative charms of British English due to that crazy amount of people he dealt with, yet he carried this burden of "perfect chivalry" and Claire had just whacked his back with it.

"Oh, absolutely not, I'll take the burden on that one" Richard had answered. There was a slight pause which he knowingly filled with courtesy "Well, I'm sure you would like to relieve yourself of your jacket, if you would follow me..." Unbelievably, the man was still fumbling with words. Sociable as he was, Richard Cox, like Enzo, didn't carry Nunzia's cloud of skeptical indifference. She was warm, yes, however her eyes always visibly placed people inside two boxes: "interesting", "boring". He, on the other hand, cared a lot about letting people feel comfortable, will their shell of reservation away.

The man took Claire to a huge white close expertly embed onto the wall of the entrance hall. There was an intention of speech, yet a noise upstairs caught his attention, followed by a flash of skin. He chuckled with true amusement "Well, that would be my son Andre. He can hear us, so I'm sure he'll be quite embarrassed by now". Richard pointed vaguely towards a wall, to what he believed to be his kitchen: "My son Enzo is doing our cooking, I'm sure you'll be delighted. It's real Italian pizza, none of that fishy Pizza Hut stuff. Come on, let me introduce you"

"Oh God, don't." Enzo though. His heart pounded nervously, as his right arm passed over his forehead in order to clean up the sweat. Obviously, flour got stuck in like trails of spider web. Worse, he was overcome by this uncomfortable idea that if he got too nervous an eye might suddenly become rainbow-colored or something.

Richard's soft door knock felt like londrine chimes declaring wildfire was devouring the city. Eternities after, it opened, freeing delicious warm vapors.

The change on Richard Cox's tone was subtle, but the Briton perceived it at once. If there was one thing Claire could deem herself proud of, it had to be the uncanny ability to read people. This, carefully nurtured by her mother, had been nearly mandatory to her survival at the jungle that was Headington — along with a sense of good timing and the knowledge of when to speak or keep quiet.

Though she had easily managed the empathy bit, she had never quite got the hang of keeping her trap shut. Wasn't there a proverb of some kind that said fish died by the mouth? Fishhooks aside, the redhead could clearly relate to it.

Her freckled cheeks turned a light shade of pink, and she nervously chewed on her lower lip. "How smooth, Claire," she mentally chastised herself, "Antagonising your host before supper will definitely take you places."

It was with utter relief that Claire catered to Richard's offer to take her belongings, readily taking off the blazer she wore, revealing her chinese-cut dress and its full floral pattern. "Yes — thank you so much," she said rather meekly, the guilt of her previous cheekiness still hanging about. Folding the blazer neatly, aligning its shoulder seams, she handed it to Richard, along with her flimsy black scarf.

Disturbance from all the way up the stairs startled her at once, making her jump and turn on the spot, green eyes growing wide. A quick movement caught the corner of her eye, before disappearing, like someone scurrying away. Claire blinked once, twice, mystified. She was still trying to figure out what had just happened when Richard, who stood by her side, laughed, seemingly amused. To her perplexed expression, her host explained that the source of such racket had been his younger son, Andre. Claire smiled, at first rather uneasy, then unflinching; Richard's tone, while light-hearted, was affectionate. The man lit up every time he mentioned his children, and she was reminded of her own father; Richard and Rupert had, apparently, some traits in common, and the realisation of such fact made Claire feel safer. She soon relaxed. "I was wondering about it," she replied breezily, "but boys will be boys, right? I grew up with two. I'm sure Andre will join us when he finds it appropriate."

The noise upstairs subsided, and the red-haired girl figured that Andre, in all likelihood, agreed with her; apparently, he could hear her. As the silence began to settle, Richard Cox took the cue to share something that brought a million watts worth a smile to her face.

>>"My son Enzo is doing our cooking, I'm sure you'll be delighted. It's real Italian pizza, none of that fishy Pizza Hut stuff."

Ah, pizza! "So that's what smells so great! In fact, more than great, the rich scent was very inviting. Claire had to give kudos to the Italian people; they had nailed the perfect meal just right. Richard lead her toward the kitchen. >>"Come on, let me introduce you," he said, and Claire was happy to comply — she wanted to meet the chef. When Richard opened the kitchen door, bliss hit her, in the form of a warm wave. Claire couldn't help it; her eyes were half-closed, and her lips curved into a slightly goofy grin. No longer delicious, now it smelt freakin' fantastic. She felt in pizza heaven.

Slowly coaxing herself back into reality, she opened her eyes to the white brilliant mess that was the kitchen. The heat, coming from the oven was overwhelming; the ceiling illumination was bright as the sunshine and every surface was heavily sprinkled with flour. The real gag, however, had to be the elder of the Cox brothers — Enzo — who stood in the centre of the kitchen, too covered in white flour. His face glistened with sweat, and his brown eyes shone with a nervous gleam. A titter escaped her before Claire could stifle it, facing such a curious scenario. Out of politeness, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, but even behind it, her smile was obvious.

"Wotcher, Enzo," she greeted the young man. "Can't wait to try the pizza."

As it swung forward, the door revealed Richard Cox and his guest, Claire. She was both a pleasurable sight and a source of profound discomfort, like when an economically ambitious person visits a grand mansion, blissfully breathing every detail yet oozing envy out of every pore; because Claire looked great, it only seemed to rise Enzo's awareness of his own appearance while simultaneously having him desire she did not expose herself to the smoldering heat of the kitchen, which could mar what appeared to be a very carefully considered look.

"Wotcher Enzo. Can't wait to try the pizza." her lips voiced, each syllable carefully drawn and colored with her beautiful accent.

"Hello, donna" uncertainty of how exactly to refer to Claire hit him just when it was necessary that he had that covered "I'm glad you would think so, it's a house specialty." he grinned, feeling his father's approval and happiness. Little could Richard guess that only a disturbing amount of self-control impeded his son of adding some sort of witty remark,
such as "father, your rushed entrance nearly scared me blue!"

Still, Richard was sensible enough to stop that little meeting before Enzo's nerves actually took any sort of physical manifestation. With a more calm and hospitable tone, the designer turned to Claire "Well, this is my elder son and our kitchen for you. Now, if you would please follow, I'm sure you'll be much more excited to see the photography lab my wife had installed. She keeps a lot of her work there!"

Winking at the girl, Enzo released a desperate sigh just as they closed the door. He was really hoping for a quick shower once his brother took over. "Ugh, I'm sure Andre is going to try and dodge it with some excuse."

His hands craftily went towards the oven, where he took the second huge pizza using a pair of black and white kitchen gloves. The teenager carefully placed it on a plate, then went for the third one, a vegetarian pizza. They were not sure what Claire preferred since Richard hadn't really asked, but she seemed to react well to the idea of eating some pizza. She probably liked all sorts of stuff.

In the meantime, Andre had just finished getting on his clothes. He was in a very hipstatic phase, his hair curling over his head, the sides shaved, wearing some red shorts with a grey shirt. There was this stamp on it, a David Star, under which one could read "FUTURISM". Had the younger Cox male decided not to stay at home, he would most likely had chosen to wear some hat.

He went downstairs, half curious about their guest. The delicious smell of homemade pizza - despite his feelings towards his brother, Andre still loved his cooking - invaded his nostrils, stimulating taste glands and saliva production alike. His feet paused for a second, uncertain of where to lead him; Enzo most likely needed the adolescent, but he was not yet to meet his special queer brother. He decided going over the lab was better, father would be there, and so would Claire.